


Qui Tacet Consentire Videtur (Or: Five Times He Didn't Talk When He Could, and One Time He Couldn't Talk at All)

by CharismaticEnticer



Series: Forgetting the Past and Other Impossible Things (Twice!Verse) [1]
Category: Die Anstalt
Genre: Broken Pedestals, Codependency, Crying, Depression, Developing Relationship, Doctor/Patient, Falling In Love, Five Times, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Disintegration, Must Know Canon, No Promises No Lies, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, POV Alternating, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Spoilers, Weird Dialogue Style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharismaticEnticer/pseuds/CharismaticEnticer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the things he wants to say, it doesn't feel right for him to talk. So he doesn't say anything. He will later wish he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Qui Tacet Consentire Videtur (Or: Five Times He Didn't Talk When He Could, and One Time He Couldn't Talk at All)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here it is: the first fanfic I ever wrote for this fandom! I say this so that you understand the following:  
> \- My writing style since completing this has significantly improved, I would like to think. I'm no longer quite as redundant or as sledgehammery as I am here, and I do have _some_ concept of spacing. ^^;  
>  \- I hadn't solidified some of the concepts that have been recurrent in my other works, such as my headcanon names. This is why Dr Wood talks in italics rather than, you know, quotations marks, and why Dub doesn't call a character by name when you'd think he would, and the like.  
> \- I wrote this back when Dub/Wood was a pairing that I knew deep down would be a destructive match and one I wasn't sure about, rather than a pairing that I know deep down will be a destructive match and my OTP. :P
> 
> Originally written and published on December 7th 2011.
> 
> Die Anstalt © Martin Kittsteiner.

Dr Wood, PhD, recently-appointed Head of Psychiatry for Abused Cuddly Toys and under-overachiever in his own thoughts, has never seen an admission to this asylum or any other first hand.  
It would be shameful if it isn't so logical. Despite being in the general field for two long years, he has only been HoP for one half day, one whole day and four hours, and for that matter this is the first time he has worked in such a high-up position. He has clawed his way upwards from humble beginnings after causing a storm at the International Congress of Plush Psychoanalysis both times in a row; it is only natural he be new to some of the more exclusive experiences, if you can call another being falling into madness exclusive.  
  
Still, when a loud buzz indicates a new admission, he cannot prevent himself rising a little too quickly from his desk to look at the new arrival.  
  
Both the staff member and the newcomer himself are surprised by how little the latter is struggling. No protests, no screaming, no lashing out during the paperwork. If anything, only an itchiness on the bottom of his feet and reassurances from the nurse that he will only be in here until he stops training so hard, and yes he can still have his rope and timer but only if he uses them in moderation, that is, not at night when the others are asleep.  
The admission takes in his environment with eyes that seem permanently tired and restless all at once. There are still colors in this separation world, blue and yellow and off-white, and the four patients already stuck in a routine on the floor don't look like they'll get in the way of his own that much.  
All in all, Dub decides, he could get used to this place until they deem him fit enough to leave.  
  
Dr Wood emerges from his office, more flustered than he would like to be right now, to scratch the name of the newcomer onto page 5 of his observation notebook. In doing so, their eyes meet briefly, lock briefly, though since his eyes are hidden under a mess of feathers, it appears to be one-sided.  
The patient sees a raven facing him, an explosion of black, a professional with a core. A spark of electricity jostles Dub's nerves, but he doesn't know why.  
The doctor sees a turtle, the tired and restless eyes, possibly muscles. He can also see a lot of himself mixed in with his newest charge - similar persistent work ethic, similar places in themselves to hide when things get too much. Similar jolt to the system.  
Even the other, on some level, can sense this.  
  
Dub doesn't know whether to feel reassured or unnerved by the realization.  
But he doesn't say anything.  
  
===  
  
No one expects to lose track of time so quickly in a building such as this. Though the windows are few and the sunlight is pushed out by the electronic light, there is at least one clock in every room, and the workers do have shifts and coffee breaks and days when they're too sick to move. Still, constantly for the patients and sometimes for the staff, the hours of the day blend into each other and further into nights and back again until the whole day and four hours feel like weeks ago.  
At least Dr Wood has a consistent weekly review with the therapist to mark how much time has passed, even if in a broader form than most.  
  
So it is this week, albeit when the building is darker than usual. After checking the credibility of the new human in the ranks (dragged up the corporate ladder to act in Dr Kindermann's absence), they trade notes on the other five on the floor, as witnessed by both.  
The therapist notes that the hippo is still refusing to communicate with anything, focused on the blocks. Pencil marks dot the notebook.  
Dr Wood is surprised to note that the crocodile is out of the box, but frantic and clinging to a baby blue blanket.  
Things pick up when they get onto the subject of the turtle again.  
  
As the therapist details the difficulty of getting Dub to part with his timer, Dr Wood finds a question seeding in his mind as to why he is more interested in this particular patient than the rest. It cannot merely be similar temperaments or looks in the eyes.  
He tries his best to push it out of his mind. He focuses on the conversation, the quiet nodding and fleshing out of the page. Then he takes in the wide-eyed begging for help on the dream analysis front, since, after all, going into the subconscious mind is the doctor's bread and butter.  
But if one pushes things out for too long, they come roaring back full force when one is alone. So when the therapist leaves with a promise of a demonstration of his technique _at some point_ to turn the lights out, the seed does just that, blossoming into a tangled set of question branches, thorny and hard and smacking him in the beak. Why doesn't he show this much interest in the hippo or the sheep? Why do they seem to have things in common when they've never even talked or met before?  
And honestly, why is this bothering him like it is?  
He shakes his head frantically whipping the worry away, and when it settles, he looks out into the main hall once again to try and make sense of things.  
  
During the lights-out hours, to make things easier for both patients and staff, said hall is converted into a patient-bedroom. Five simple beds line the walls, spaced out. Four of them are occupied. The fifth is empty, its occupant in the middle, breaking his imposed and promised protocol and skipping well into the night.  
As such, Dub doesn't see any disturbance at first. After today's talk, he is hell-bent on making up for his lost time, time wasted stumbling on his own unease. It doesn't help matters that he can't see in the dark that is crashing on him and blends time further into itself.  
But a poorly-suppressed cough from the doctor alerts him to the presence of his superior, and this startles him into tripping and falling on his front for the second time in today's memory.  
The others stir, but don't awaken. Dub pulls himself up, humiliated and sheepish. But before he can explain, the door shuts.  
  
Dub wants to pursue, to apologise, to figure out why his heart just leapt into his mouth.  
But he doesn't say anything.  
  
===  
  
Sometimes silence is out of choice or refusal to cooperate; other times, out of necessity. After the dalliance into his dreams, after being strapped to that life-sapping machine, the silence and stillness and sobering fragmentation of Dub is out of necessity.  
Any and all words are gone, any and all sense of existence being worthwhile. Even if he could say anything, it'd be entirely self hatred. Inadequate. Will never make the grade. Undeserving. Foul. Needs to rot away here in this room.  
But he cannot get them out because, apart from anything else, his head still spins and pulses, and there is no one to voice these thoughts to in the electroshock recovery ward.  
  
...No. There is one. Dr Wood, taking time out of his day to look at him. It'd be kind and lift his spirits, if he deserved it; as it stands, it isn't exactly a reason to live when his purpose of being has been drained away, making the presence of that very different kind of electricity just as torturous. And besides, the doctor looks like he is having problems of his own.  
  
If Dr Wood could tell what the turtle was thinking, he'd be inclined to agree. His idol in the photo in the office is starting to follow him everywhere, frowning in disapproval. And he...it? Has even begun to communicate when it hasn't before, whispering frozen thoughts and pouring pestilence.  
Not so similar to you now, is he? the poison bubbles in his ear. The drive, the spirit, has gone. Your fascination with him should be quenched.  
 _'Should' doesn't mean 'is'._ And how true. Actually, the frustration of not meeting the expectations he raised so many times is more common to him than the picture knows, and this dual mutuality only catches his interest further.  
Freud refuses to let up.  Nor does fascination mean it will be a worthwhile pursuit, it...he? Whispers to the bird. The similarity was superficial at best, and the connection fragile. If you are to truly take your place as Head of Psychiatry, you need to push away from this pointless endeavor.  
 _For a talking photo, Sigmund Freud, you give me too little credit. If it's as pointless as you insist, why would Dub resound in my thoughts in the first place?_  
Perhaps to tangle them in knots until you become as sane as the rest of us.  
  
 _Is it really insane to obsess like this? Isn't that part of my job?_  
The man in the photo shakes. Did heit just laugh at him?  
Is it really sane to converse with an inanimate object aloud, knowing full well the object of your, ahem, "affections" will judge you for it?  
Silence, by choice. Being bested by the logic and word choice of evidence of his own insanity stings a little.  
There is no need to feign ignorance, Wood. Why not embrace your new found loss of control? You have already spurned previous methods in favor of fraudulent side routes. Perhaps you will fall into a fever dream and you too will need treatment and you will be right beside Dub in the recovery room. The picture of Freud laughs, aloud this time, at itshis own thoughts. The doctor, needing electroshock? How patently absurd.  
 _Pardon me if I fail to see the funny side, Freud._  
  
The recovering patient doesn't overhear every word, for he cannot hear the photo talk. But when his name comes into conversation, and "obsess", and "thoughts", a detached part of him puts two and two together.  
  
Dub's insides find a fragment of a desire, deep down, flaring it upwards gradually to expand. He wants to voice, to himself if no one else, the prospect of having... not a reason to live, but a blockage against death.  
But he doesn't say anything.  
  
===  
  
The next time Dub sees the Doctor, the circumstances have changed and they look and feel a little different. Dub has abandoned the protection of his own shell, gotten past the lack of reason, regained his timer and his rope, dropped the latter to the ground, sobbed himself dry over a repressed memory, numbed the pain to a hum instead of a slash.  
The change in Dr Wood seems more substantial. He has eyes now, just as tired as his own, but brighter and dilated. He has claws too, whirling dervishes in his hand.  
And it is clear he isn't here for a simple case conference.  
  
 _Hello again, Dub. No, technically, just hello; we haven't spoken yet. It's fascinating how often we seem to cross paths in this asylum without actually talking, isn't it?_  
More words this time, more words directly at him. Something has definitely changed.  
 _I figured now is as good a time as any to change this, you being as fragile as you are and me being at the top of my game. No conscious therapists, no eavesdropping patients, no talking idols to question my competence and sanity when I'm not insane. Just you, me, and closure._  
  
Dub merely blinks in interest. He likes the sound of closure. It, and "me", resonate as things he needs right now.  
  
 _I don't think it escapes your attention that I'm different from before, Dub; you are a smart turtle, after all. Before, I was merely a doctor, a bird, a being to be toyed with, never reaching the goals life set out for me despite thinking I had._  
He nods at the other's words; he knows that feeling all too well.  
 _But I have transcended the mundanity of my old existence,_ the raven continues, pressing his clear advantage. _I can do so much better. I can heal properly, with no instruments and no smoke and no mirrors._  
 _I can destroy the things that unhinge you and give you a happiness you forgot existed._  
 _Doesn't that sound like bliss?_  
  
There would be no point in Dub hiding it; it does. It sounds like a kind of foot-itchy soaring accomplishment-inducing bliss that he can remember having once, a time ago. Not very clearly, though, being under the shadow of...  
He shakes himself. The conversation is meant to help forget, not dwell. He turns his attention back to Dr Wood, showing agreement in his eyes just the same.  
  
 _Of course, I will need something from you._  
And suddenly the persuasion seems itself hinged, ready to sway in one direction or another, unsettling the air.  
Dub's slight retreat behind his shell must be visible, for Dr Wood is quick to correct himself: _I won't need anything really big. Merely a material possession, one you hold close to you. You won't need it afterwards. Just one thing, and closure in return. It's a fair exchange, Dub._  
  
After rummaging underneath for a bit, Dub comes back up, timer in hand, sitting down again. But he doesn't feel as agreeable as before. Trepidation has found a way in.  
Time for the final gambit.  
  
 _Dub, I have said before I am not insane. I have learned **some** things about the consciousness of toys like you. Your secondary desire is clear...and mutual._  
Somehow the word is so clear that it takes a second or two to sink in and turn Dub scarlet around the cheeks. He quickly wishes he could get back inside the shell.  
A chuckle from the other. _Don't be embarrassed. This is good. If you take this opportunity, give yourself the chance to be healed, this desire will be satisfied. A better deal for you than for the other patients. Bliss upon bliss._  
  
Other patients... then Dub is not the only one to be talked to like this. Does this mean he has recieved the **exact** same words, right down to the blush? What is true in his words? What isn't?  
Does it matter, if Dr Wood is the end result?  
Does it matter still... if there are others...?  
  
 _...I won't be **like** the others, Dub._  
 _I won't be the next to leave you behind._  
 _I promise._  
  
And that is that.  
Resistance shatters. The heartache of the words, the meaning, returns as easily as if it'd never gone. Dub trembles, curls up on himself, Slow-Solid style, and cries the tears he didn't know he had left.  
He almost doesn't feel the timer slip away from his grasp, doesn't feel the claw on a string pressed in its stead, focusing on the touch of a shadowy wing enveloping him in a hug and sweeping away the falling tears with a fragile feather.  
  
Dub, caught in this embrace, feels just that little more healed already.  
But he doesn't say anything.  
  
===  
  
Wood, no longer a doctor, is king of all he surveys. He has everyone wearing the claws on strings, looking up to him as they should. He is their leader, their healer, their saviour.  
  
Dub, shell restored, is one of the saved; although he doesn't feel it now, he is sure the healing will begin soon and the promised satisfaction will be given privately, not in front of the other patients at the end of the bed like this. Others. What did he have to worry about "others"?  
  
Wood, surrounded by smoke, but not to hide the mirrors, only to give the whole room a sense of his majesty, looks at his audience, the healed.  
  
Dub looks back up at him, claw over his heart.  
  
Wood selects Dub, calls out to him. _I dreamt yesterday of a turtle carrying me over the seas to my destiny. Be that turtle, Dub._  
  
Dub shivers, insides bringing the good electricity back, and a little of something else with it. He climbs up, struggling a little, onto the bed to meet him.  
  
Wood doesn't feel like wasting any time. But at the same time, protocol is protocol.  
  
Dub, having forgotten himself and the place instilled into him around the campfire (superior, but still inferior, both at once), drops his head.  
  
Wood climbs on.  
  
Dub luxuriates, briefly, in the feel of the feet on his back.  
  
Wood reminds him of his task. He is a busy king, and the higher up he can go, the more healing he can do.  
  
Dub carries him, not so heavy him, one foot in front of the other. The trek is not so long, but he wants it to last longer. He walks and walks until his head hits the pillow on the other side.  
  
Wood climbs up, leaving a craving Dub in his wake. He stares at the talking photo that mocks him and his mental faculties and his obsession and his kleptomania and the myriad of other insults they saved just for him.  
  
Dub watches him stare at an inanimate object, not daring to question it.  
  
Wood uses his bigger claw, the one of bad as opposed to the one of good, to send his idol crashing down. He turns and demands his audience to give him what he deserves.  
  
Dub stares up at him, part of his face still in the pillow, and does.  
  
Wood flexes, stretches his wings, and begins to shape his world as he sees fit. His claws hum, his being hums and vibrates. The bed begins to rise.  
  
Dub is pushed further back, clings to the end, is the only one to rise with him.  
  
Truth be told, Dub, loyal vulnerable Dub, is starting to get scared. Of the power, of the rush, of falling too fast...  
  
But even as gravity takes over and he slips and he falls off, feet and head tucked back in, falling half as far down and half as quickly as he did into love for this brave and wonderful Wood...  
  
He doesn't say anything.  
  
So  
more  
fool  
him.  
  
===  
  
One more, and this the last:  
  
Wood, the doctor, is restored from his dizzying heights and brought down to the human, no, the cuddly toy level. Wood, the healer, is healed, gone by what feels like the next day. The patients have been recollected, placed back into the routines so shaken up.  
  
Dub, meanwhile, feels freshly shredded, trying to comprehend the ache of two lies, two abandonments, instead of one.  
  
The therapist fails to pick up on the latter lie. "Take all the time you need to get better, okay? Don't feel bad for still feeling sad. I'd feel sad too if I went through what you've gone through. I'm sure your owner hasn't forgotten you entirely, right?"  
  
Dub twists the claw on a string, the one fragment of hope remaining after the purge, between his shaking hands. He wants to say, no, scream hoarse so that they comprehend, that lost owners are only part of the problem, that the other chunk walked out with the bird in black.  
  
But he **can't** say anything.  
  
What would be the purpose, the point, of asking for something long gone?

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you may be wondering if it would really be in character for Dub to 'fall in love' as quickly as he does. Don't worry, I have what I hope is decent justification for that. To quote from my original notes for the fanfic: "After recalling a repressed memory wherein his owner of many years forgot about him and left him in a strange country, it would probably stand to reason that Dub is feeling a little emotionally vulnerable. Having already been fascinated by the physiology of Dr Wood before that point in the therapy, in the aftermath he would be looking for someone to stand in and alleviate what the in-game help describes as the "repressed fear of losing an object of love". His owner has left, the sock puppet is impermanent, the balloon pops. And suddenly here comes his crush, promising healing and the mutuality of attraction. Who wouldn't form an emotional attachment all too quickly, thereby falling hook line and sinker?" It's the disorder of obsessive love, basically; Dub calling it that with no real basis to the fact beyond 'he's there, he won't hurt me'. He will be called out on this thinking (unsuccessfully) in the next instalment.


End file.
